


A Private Mathematic

by Topaz_Eyes



Category: Einstein and Eddington (2008)
Genre: 1910s, Angst, Historical, M/M, Prequel, Unrequited Love, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-28
Updated: 2010-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-08 09:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topaz_Eyes/pseuds/Topaz_Eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To study the fall of light and shade... to survey those planes, contours and angles in precise measurement, not with calipers but with his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Private Mathematic

**Author's Note:**

> A prequel completely based on film events, so there are spoilers. Quote by Sir Arthur Eddington, as quoted in _A Dictionary of Scientific Quotations_ (1991) by Alan L. Mackay, p. 79.

_We used to think that if we knew one, we knew two, because one and one are two. We are finding that we must learn a great deal more about 'and'._

 

They have been bicycling for hours, with only a few breaks for water, when they finally see their destination, the ancient oak tree atop the gentle hill ahead.

Arthur smiles with joy and relief and picks up the pace. "Almost there, Marston!" he calls to William behind him. "Just a few hundred feet to go."

"At last!"

They dismount when they reach the shade of the oak tree. Arthur leans his bicycle carefully against the sturdy trunk; William lays his on the grass. Still breathing hard with exertion, they wander around the tree for a minute to allow their legs to loosen; both men grinning wildly at each other.

"We did it!" Arthur says.

"Over twenty miles today!" William spreads his hands skyward.

Arthur tilts his head towards the brilliantly blue sky, purses his mouth in thought. "Twenty-one and seven-tenths, to be precise," he replies. "And a record, if I'm not mistaken." He looks at William and laughs, unrestrained. "A record!"

"That's splendid!" William wipes his brow on his sleeve. He looks down at the grass in the shade of the tree, then back up at Arthur. "Then surely we deserve a rest before we head back home."

"Come now, we're each but two miles away--"

"I don't care." William throws himself back onto the grass, and stretches out with feet crossed and head pillowed on his hands.

Arthur stands over him, his long shadow casting over his friend. Hands on hips, he shakes his head fondly. "You're incorrigible."

William grins up at him. "A nap in the outdoors," he pronounces, "is the cure for all ills."

"If you feel ill then I shall not deny you." Arthur lowers and sits down more sedately beside him, clasps his hands between his knees.

William turns his head, his eyes already heavy-lidded. "Not ill at all, Eddington, just tired. You are too, if you'd only admit it. You would do well to follow my advice."

His lids droop further, and within minutes William is asleep. Arthur is still too emotionally exhilarated from their journey to follow suit, but he is glad of the chance to rest his legs awhile. He withdraws his handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, removes his spectacles and polishes them, perches them back on his nose. He then pulls out his map and pencil, annotates it with their miles traveled that day. Today had been their very best ride.

Arthur leans back on his elbows and draws a deep breath of the fresh summer air. There is serenity here, he thinks, staring up at the arch of August sky above them. God's grace abounds. Arthur hears Him whisper in the leaves of the hundred-year-old oak tree rustling overhead, the calling songs of the robins nesting, the gently rolling countryside; he senses God's majesty in the calculus of orbits, of the planets and stars beyond. Of that he has never had doubt.

God is in everything except, of course, death and destruction. In this brilliant English sunshine it is inconceivable to think war has begun in Europe. News of enlistments rumble daily through the halls of Cambridge. Good, patriotic men, off to the trenches in Belgium and France.

Of course Arthur, bound by his convictions and his faith, will not go. He does not know if William has been--or is--considering signing up with the Cambridgeshire Regiment. It is possible, though they have never discussed it.

The very idea sends a chill through him.

And so Arthur turns to watch his friend doze. The rise and fall of his steady breathing confirms that William is indeed asleep. His youthful face--his whole body, actually--is at ease in his repose. A contented half-smile plays on his lips and Arthur also smiles with full and unguarded affection. He treasures these stolen moments, these rare times when he can allow himself to gaze openly on William's form without fear of question. To study the fall of light and shade on William's face; to survey those planes, contours and angles in precise measurement, not with calipers but with his heart.

Perhaps it is the lingering elation from their ride, or maybe the sober counterpoint of William possibly leaving him to join the troops. No matter the reason, a wild tenderness overflows within him. He finds himself overcome by a fierce desire to touch his friend. He reaches out a trembling hand to trace those dearest features heretofore outlined only by his eyes. If God is in everything as he believes, so His presence must be in this gesture too; as God is in this sleeping man whom Arthur Eddington loves like no other. How can He not be?

Arthur's fingertips hover a scant inch over William's hair, close enough to feel the warmth, when William shifts slightly, inclines his chin just a fraction to the left. Hardly a twitch, but the increment is enough to startle Arthur back into his senses.

He flinches and pulls his hand away. Even as he acknowledges William's import to him, he cannot bring himself to touch him.

Arthur turns back, sits up with hands clasped around his knees to stare at the sky again. He tries not to think of how God's voice sounds just that little bit further away now. Instead he tries to occupy his mind with other thoughts, such as his very new appointment as Director of the Cambridge Observatory; the odd precession in Mercury's orbit round the sun, the reason for which that has yet to be accounted.

It grows darker over the hour as the sun descends, and evening clouds roll in. The breeze soon picks up and from the corner of his eye Arthur notices William stirring. The same tenderness wells in Arthur again as William's eyes flutter open. Hastily he tears his gaze away to compose himself.

"Now that was a refreshing nap," William says, none the wiser. "I should hope you also took advantage of the opportunity."

"Yes I did. It was a welcome chance to think."

William shakes his head. "You are always thinking, my friend," he says with fond inflection. Arthur's mouth quirks in reply.

Their eyes meet and hold for a moment, one Arthur wishes might never end. But then William pulls his gold pocket watch from his waistcoat. He flips it open, and the moment breaks. "I daresay it's time to get back," he adds, "or Winnie will have your hide for ruining her supper."

Of course they both know Winnie would do no such thing. "Quite right," Arthur replies in the same jovial tone. He rises and extends his hand to help him up, but William jumps to his feet. Arthur brushes William's sleeve as he passes by.

"Will you dine with us tonight?"

William shakes his head. "I have a meeting elsewhere," he answers quietly. Arthur peers at him, but he does not elaborate; indeed William cannot quite meet his eyes. Instead he picks up his bicycle off the grass. "You haven't forgotten our tennis match tomorrow?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Perhaps we might even win."

"Now that would be a day for the record books."

William mounts his bicycle and flashes a grin. "So I shall see you tomorrow on the lawn."

"I'll be waiting."

William glides off towards the hill. Arthur shades his eyes with one hand to watch until he rounds the hill and disappears.

When William is gone from his sight, Arthur closes his eyes against a surge of emotion. How he wishes this private mathematic of the heart had forever remained cryptic to him. The pain of deriving this answer is deeper than he could ever have imagined. What good was solving this algebra when one could never share its solution with anyone?

Including one's beloved?

Any remnant of elation he'd felt earlier is gone. He retrieves his own bicycle which was leaning against the trunk of the oak tree. He draws a deep, sober breath, then climbs onto the seat and pushes off in the other direction towards his own solitary house.


End file.
